Dead Nuns

by Vikki Petraitis, Copyright 1995

Today is Friday the 13th - definitely not a good sign for a
school day. So many things could happen - especially if you
bothered to listen to kids like Nicholas Ramsbotthom.
Nicholas Ramsbotthom has spent the last two weeks spreading
silly stories about dead nuns and ghosts around practically
the whole school population of St Maria Goretti's Langwarrin.

Of course, I don't believe any of his stories for a
second. There's no such things as ghosts and besides as our
teacher Ms Sposato says, "There are enough things to be
scared of in this world without inventing new ones".

The only story that did worry me just a tiny bit - was the
story Nicholas Ramsbotthom told about the dead nuns. He
cornered me and Jason McWhirter on our way back from music
class last Tuesday.

We were walking back to our classroom past the huge old
wooden storage cupboards that lined the grade 5 corridor,
when Nicholas Ramsbotthom pointed to the very end cupboard
door and said, "See that cupboard?" We nodded, not really
interested and he said, "It's haunted!"

"Aw, it is not," I said.

"Yes it is," he said smiling smugly.

"How do you know?"

"I know because I've heard it," said Nicholas
Ramsbotthom walking on ahead. Jason McWhirter and I looked at
each other strangely. We didn't believe him of course, but he
did look like he knew something that we didn't and for that
reason alone, we ran to catch up to him.

Jason McWhirter and I laughed aloud. That story was silly.
I grabbed Nicholas Ramsbotthom's arm and gave him a quick
Chinese Burn. When we told him we didn't believe a word of
his stupid story, he looked hurt and he walked on ahead of
us.

"Nicholas Ramsbotthom's such a dork," said Jason
McWhirter.

"Yeah, he didn't scare me a bit," I said.

Nicholas' stories themselves didn't scare me - but a
combination of them as well as a few other things sure did
the trick. In class all this week Ms Sposato has been
reading stories from a book called More Tales From the
Midnight Hour - and they were spooky. The book's cover had a
bat and a huge scorpion creeping and crawling up an old
grandfather clock whose hands were pointing to midnight. I
hate scorpions and I hate bats.

It had been a bit of a spooky week all round. The Mighty
Bombers had been beaten by Geelong, my grandmother had
arrived suddenly from Queensland and settled herself
comfortably into my bedroom and Snotty McFee had a cold.
Snotty McFee was sneezing on average 17.2 times a day - we
know because Ms Sposato made us do a maths chart on Snotty's
sneezing patterns. Ms Sposato says that anything can be
turned into a valuable learning experience. So, now the whole
class is praying that Snotty McFee never gets gastro.

I hate weeks like this when things don't go how they
usually go. I am sharing a room with my stupid little
brother, I think I'm getting Snotty McFee's cold and all
these scary stories are starting to give me bad dreams. Thank
goodness the Mighty Bombers are still on the top of the
ladder.

Today when I got to school early and wandered into the
classroom to see if Ms Sposato had any jobs, I saw Nicholas
Ramsbotthom had got in ahead of me and he had the job of
writing the date on the board. He had written "Friday" in a
particularly flourishing way and he was in the process of
writing "the 13th" and decorating it with spider webs. I
shuddered and unpacked my bag, trying not to look at the
blackboard.

After the bell rang Ms Sposato marked the roll. All 31 of
us were here and Nicholas Ramsbotthom lost no time pointing
out that 31 was 13 backwards. Ms Sposato began a little chat
about broken bones because Robert had his arm in a cast after
an accident that had given Troy McKenzie a week's detention.
Ms Sposato finished telling us how not to break our bones and
then she looked strongly in Troy McKenzie's direction. She
said in her best serious voice, "And encouraging others to
poke the metre ruler into the ceiling fan when it's on 'high'
is just asking for trouble."

Ms Sposato never dwelt on things that she called
"unpleasant business", and after her pointed comment to Troy
McKenzie she picked up the book of spooky stories and began
to read one called In the Lantern's Light. It was about a
boy who was being chased by a man with no face.

Ms Sposato smiled when she finished the story. Sometimes
she had no idea how scared she made us. "What a wonderful
story," she said, "The subject of lanterns brings us to our
next topic - the olden days." A few of us groaned. After the
grade 5 overnight stay at Sovereign Hill last month, we had
had enough of the olden days to last us until these days were
the olden days.

"I'd like for you all to ask your grandparents if any of
them could come up and talk to the class about the olden
days. It's a much better learning experience to hear it
straight from the horse's mouth - so to speak."

I thought of my grandmother on my father's side. My mother
was always saying that grandma "bent the elbow a little too
often", and dad said that she only staggered when she walked
because her lumbago was playing up. I never knew what either
of them meant, but it seemed to me that grandma was always
drunk. Then I thought of Grandma Dunham. She was on holiday
from Queensland, but I was sure she wouldn't mind coming to
talk to my class. I put up my hand and told Ms Sposato that I
would ask her and that my Grandma Dunham had grown up in
Langwarrin and was one of the first pupils at St Maria
Goretti's over seventy years ago. Ms Sposato was pleased and
I hoped Grandma Dunham would be able to come in.

We went back to our desks to do some fractions. Seymor
Pereira made paper aeroplanes under his desk lid to fling at
Bronwyn Bunting every time she bent her head to work. I was
so busy watching this spectacle that I didn't notice Grandma
Dunham walking into our classroom. When I finally heard Ms
Sposato's voice, which always sounded different when she was
talking to normal people, I turned casually around to see her
in deep conversation with my grandmother. When Ms Sposato saw
me looking she gestured smilingly for me to come over.

"You silly sausage, you forgot your lunch and your
grandmother has very kindly brought it to school for you.
While she's here she has just agreed to give the class a
talk on the olden days."

I was a bit embarrassed when Grandma Dunham handed my huge
Mickey Mouse lunchbox to me in front of the whole class. It
smelt vaguely of last night's sausages which was no doubt
what my mother had put in my sandwiches. My Mickey Mouse
lunchbox hadn't seen the light of day since grade 2. I always
kept it in my bag and reached in to get my lunch out so no
one would see it. It was a present from my uncle who had been
to Disney World when I was in prep. I used to love it then,
but now I blushed and hurried it out to the corridor.

Strolling casually back into the room, Mickey Mouse shoved
where the sun didn't shine, the class were sitting on the
floor and my grandma was sitting on a low chair next to Ms
Sposato and the heater. Ms Sposato introduced Grandma Dunham
and told us how lucky we were to have someone so truly
ancient come to speak to us. We clapped politely and Grandma
Dunham smiled all over her face.

She began to talk in her crackly voice, "I remember when
St Maria Goretti Primary School, Langwarrin was the pride of
the community. Of course in those days, when you didn't have
all this crime and vandalism and strange haircuts, we loved
our school. It was set up by the nuns of the Immaculate
Conception. Oh, they were a magnificent bunch. They weren't
like these nuns of today that you can't tell they're nuns
with their short dresses and perfume. No Siree Bob! Our nuns
were real nuns!"

Grandma Dunham paused for breath and looked around at the
sea of grade 5 faces and gave me a special smile. She really
was warming to her subject, maybe because at home, no one
ever listened to her reminiscing. "Is there anything in
particular you would like me to talk about, dearies?"

Nicholas Ramsbotthom shot up his hand and Grandma Dunham
picked him for a question. "Did any of the Immaculate
Conception nuns ever die here?"

"Funny you should ask that," said Grandma Dunham in a
quiet voice, "As a matter of fact, there was one nun who died
under tragic circumstances." The whole class sat up a bit
straighter and strained to hear what sounded like a juicy
story. Grandma Dunham lowered her voice to almost a whisper.
She had tragedy written all over her face. We listened.

"It was a dark and stormy night," began Grandma Dunham,
"when Sr Anastasia died. The old convent which is by
coincidence the very building we are in now, had a power
blackout and the nuns had lit candles all around the convent.
They had all gone to the chapel for evening prayers and there
was silence all over the place - except of course for the
storm outside. After prayers, the nuns returned to the
kitchen and Sr Anastasia, who was a sweet old thing, turned
on the gas jets to make the other nuns a cup of Milo before
they all turned in for the night. Just as the milk began to
bubble and rise, there was a crashing sound outside. Sr
Anastasia, who all the other nuns always said was the bravest
in the convent, immediately went out to investigate after
first putting on a sensible raincoat.

"At the end of the paddock where the bus stop now stands
a tree had been struck by lightening and one of its huge
branches had crashed burning to the ground. The other nuns
said that Sr Anastasia must have mistaken this act of God for
a real Act of God and she ran as fast as her old legs would
carry her over to the broken tree. Unfortunately the old girl
forgot about the unused well in the middle of the paddock and
she ran straight into the side of it and flipped over the low
brick wall into the well and was drowned.

"They say that the nuns later found her sensible black
raincoat caught on the well's old bucket hook. Oh, the
tragedy of it all," sighed Grandma Dunham, obviously enjoying
herself.

When she finished the story, Nicholas Ramsbotthom's hand
shot up again. "Does her ghost still walk"? he asked
excitedly.

"Well, I've heard that soon afterwards one of the other
nuns saw her in the convent kitchen." said Grandma Dunham,
her eyes narrowing.

"What was she doing?" called Troy McKenzie from the back
of the room where Ms Sposato said he had to sit so he
wouldn't steal quality learning time from the rest of the
class.

Grandma Dunham took off her old fashioned glasses and
wiped them with a neatly folded tissue that she pulled from
the sleeve of her cardigan. "She was... making some ghostly
Milo."

At that moment the bell rang and most of the grade 5's
nearly jumped out of their skins. Grandma Dunham chuckled and
said, "Don't worry, Sr Anastasia couldn't make Milo now
because the old convent kitchen was converted into storage
space. In fact if my memory serves me correctly, those
cupboards just outside this room use to be the convent
kitchen."

Nicholas Ramsbotthom turned around and gave me an "I told
you so" look.

At play time, everyone in our grade was talking about Sr
Anastasia. Bronwyn Bunting told me that she was sure that she
had once seen a ghostly shadow near the tuckshop and Troy
McKenzie told everybody that he regularly heard groans from
the non-fiction section of the library. Nicholas Ramsbotthom
was in his element. He told anyone who would listen about the
noises he heard from the end cupboard in the grade 5 corridor
and everyone looked impressed.

When the bell rang and we went back into class, Ms Sposato
acted as if nothing scary had happened and we spent the rest of
the day doing normal work, but I found it difficult to
concentrate. I kept seeing Grandma Dunham sitting by the heater
telling us the terrible story. I blinked and shook my head but
I just couldn't get it out of my mind.

When the bell rang at 3.30, we all packed up - except Troy
McKenzie who had detention - and Ms Sposato gave us fractions
for week-end homework. I ran out to the quadrangle and nearly
bumped into Grandma Dunham. She had come to school to walk me
home. How embarrassing!

"Did you have a nice day dear?" she asked me.

"Yes," I said, "Was that story you told really true?"

"As true as I'm standing here," she said.

"How come you never told me before?" I asked.

"To tell you the truth," she said, "I had forgotten all
about it. Being at St Maria Goretti's again jogged my memory.
It was a long time ago - before the war."

Grandma Dunham then talked about the war until we got to my
house at number 2 Manning Clarke Drive. I walked into the
kitchen and opened the fridge and didn't find anything because
dad hadn't done the shopping yet. Grandma Dunham said that
there was plenty of fruit and in her day children never had any
of these fancy after school snacks, they just ate fruit when
they got home after walking three miles in nothing but bare
feet because they couldn't afford shoes. She also told me how
grateful they were for the fruit.

I escaped into my room and felt so strange that I decided to
do my homework. I pulled out my Mickey Mouse lunch box and my
pencil case and my newsletter and my bag of marbles and felt
around for my homework book. I turned my bag upside down and
the only things that fell out were my footy cards and last
week's banana. No homework book.

I groaned. Ms Sposato got really cross when we didn't do our
homework. I looked at my watch. It was 3.45 pm. I would have
time to run back to school and get it if I left now. Ms Sposato
would still be there because Troy McKenzie had detention until
4.30. I told Grandma Dunham where I was going and as I raced
out the door I could hear her saying that in her day children
never forgot their homework books.

I ran through the gates of St Maria Goretti's and in through
the front office. I snuck past the staffroom and I could hear
Ms Sposato telling Mr Box that Troy McKenzie should be given a
one way ticket to the Langwarrin State School.

Troy McKenzie was going through Bronwyn Bunting's desk when
I crept into our classroom. He nearly jumped out of his school
shoes when he heard me and quickly slammed the lid down jamming
Bronwyn Bunting's Dolly magazine half in and half out.

"What are you doing here?" he said in his menacing voice.

"I forgot my homework book," I said.

"Homework's for girly Collingwood supporters," he said
because he never did his and he barracked for the Blues. I
ignored him and went to get my homework book out of my desk.

Just as I was about to go, we both heard a crash from
outside in the corridor. I jumped and so did Troy McKenzie.

"What was that?" I cried. Troy McKenzie turned pale and
accused me of making the noise. I told him that it wasn't me
and I think he saw by the scared look on my face that I wasn't
the one responsible. He came over and stood next to me near the
door and we both listened. I was just about to say that it was
probably nothing, when we heard a thumping sound. We both
grabbed each other.

"It's Sr Anastasia!" whispered Troy McKenzie, who was never
normally scared of anything, but now he was shaking. Seeing him
scared was almost as frightening as the crashes outside. I
opened the classroom door just a tiny bit and peeped into the
corridor. The end cupboard door was open!

I shut the classroom door quickly and told Troy McKenzie
about the door being open. He turned even more pale, but in
seconds the true Troy McKenzie that we have come to know and be
scared of began to shine through.

"I've always wanted to bash a ghost," he said in his
toughest voice. I relaxed a bit. If anyone could bash Sr
Anastasia, it would be Troy McKenzie. He ran over to the
blackboard and grabbed the metre ruler, which was slightly
chewed at the end since its encounter with the ceiling fan. He
raced over to Ms Sposato's desk and grabbed her large green
vase filled with orchids from Bronwyn Bunting's garden. He
opened one of the windows and tipped the flowers outside and
ran back to me.

"You take this as a weapon," he ordered, handing me the
vase. It trembled in my hands. He swung his metre ruler like
a ninja and it whooshed right past my head.

"Are you ready?" he said crouching down just like he'd seen
the Ninja Turtles do. I was about to say no, when he thought of
something. "Hold on a second." I watched as Troy McKenzie ran
to Ms Sposato's art cupboard. He grabbed his black art smock
and tore a strip off the hem. He tied it around his forehead
and ran back to the door and picked up the metre ruler again.

"Ready, Steady, Spaghetti!" he yelled as he raced into the
corridor flourishing his metric weapon. I followed close
behind. He let out a loud battle cry as he jumped around the
cupboard door and swung the metre ruler. I raised my vase above
my head and closed my eyes ready to send it crashing down...

On Monday morning, Ms Sposato gave another of her little
talks.

"A school is a place where everybody has the right to feel
safe. We must try to use our common sense and not to jump to
silly conclusions." She looked at me and Troy McKenzie, who
were both sitting up the back of the class and said, "And
attacking the school cleaner with a metre ruler, dressed as a
Ninja Turtle, is just asking for trouble!"